A Chemical Romance
by acaelousqueadcentrum
Summary: A Rookie Blue AU. Romance languages and chemical equations.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Rookie Blue or any of its characters.

**AN**: Currently a oneshot. Can't guarantee it will ever be more.

* * *

To say that Gail hadn't noticed the newcomer in the teacher's lounge would be a lie. She noticed. She noticed everything. She just wasn't interested enough to bother acknowledging the other woman.

So for the first few days of their shared lunch period, Gail offered disinterested grunts whenever the other woman said hello and sat down at the only other table in the room. And then the two women sat and ate their lunches in silence.

On the third day the woman tried to start a conversation, breaking the silence to ask "is it always so quiet in here?"

Gail looked up from her cold leftover pizza.

"Only a few of us have fourth period free for lunch. It's why I like it. It's **quiet.**"

The other woman must pick up on her meaning, because she leaves Gail alone for the rest of the period, and doesn't try to make conversation the rest of the week either.

On Monday, Gail is in a particularly bad mood. She overslept, she ripped her favorite sweater trying to yank it off its hanger, and she'd left the leftover takeout she'd been planning on having for lunch on the counter in her kitchen. So when she gets to the lounge at lunch and finds her table occupied by some student teachers working on some project their supervising teachers gave them, she doesn't even bother trying to disguise the annoyed look that crosses her face.

She pours herself a cup of coffee and then sits at the other table, glaring across the room at the college students in her space. The new teacher comes in shortly after that, and gives her a surprised hello when she realizes that Gail is now seated at her table. Gail acknowledges her, gesturing over to the other table in explanation, and then goes back to drinking her coffee.

She pretends to read the magazine in front of her while sneaking looks at the dark-haired woman unpacking a bright red lunchbox. She hadn't noticed before, but the woman wasn't much older than she was, maybe a few years, but no more. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a gentle ponytail, and a pair of black-framed glasses perched atop her head held back some of the strands that had gotten loose.

"No lunch today," the woman asks politely.

Gail rolls her eyes, it's pretty clear that she didn't bring anything.

The brunette leans forward with a grin and whispers slyly, "They stole your lunch _and _your table," glancing over at the giggling student teachers. "Harsh."

Gail can't help but laugh. It gets a crooked smile in return.

"No, Lunchbox," she says, a hint of amusement in her voice, "rough morning."

The brunette seems confused. "Lunchbox?" she asks.

Gail just points to the bag between them.

"Ohhhh," the woman says, and then laughs back at her. "It's Holly, actually, Holly Stewart. Chemistry."

When Gail doesn't say anything in return, the woman—Holly—sighs and prods her a bit.

"You know, most people would probably introduce themselves at this point," she says dryly.

"I think you'll find out rather quickly that I'm not most people," Gail says back to her.

She doesn't hear what Holly mumbles in response, but she's sure it's nothing positive. Maybe she'll stop trying to make conversation and just leave her alone.

It's not until the other woman breaks the silence again that Gail realizes she was hoping the woman wouldn't give up that easily.

"You must be pretty hungry," Holly says, baiting her by taking a big bite out of her sandwich.

Gail shrugs. She is, her stomach's been growling all morning, but she's not going to admit it to this stranger.

But Holly doesn't give up. She picks up her apple and takes bites into it with a crunch.

"I think I packed too much today. I don't know if I'll be able to finish it all."

Gail glances up from her magazine to find Holly looking over at her, eyes glittering with amusement.

"Oh, I don't know," she says to the brunette, "you've got a big mouth, I bet you could fit it all in."

Holly laughs again, and against her will Gail can feel herself start to smile. The woman's laugh has this happy, delicate sound to it, a windchime caught in the first spring breeze.

"Tell you what," Holly says unfazed, "you introduce yourself and I'll give you half my sandwich. Deal?"

"Introduce myself?" Gail asks, eyeing up what looks to be a delicious ham sandwich.

"Yes, you know the routine. Civilized people have been doing it for centuries now. I tell you my name and what I teach—which I did—and then you tell me yours."

She pretends to mull it over for a moment. She's going to give in, the growling of her stomach is reason enough, but Gail never gives in too easily.

"Counter offer," she says. "For the sandwich, you get my name. But if you want to know what I teach it's gonna cost you half your cookies."

There's something about Holly's laugh that Gail could get used to hearing. There's something comforting about it.

"Deal," she says, and extends her hand to shake, and then pushes her lunch to the center of the table to share.

Gail grabs the other half of the sandwich, more than her fair share of cookies, and a handful of grapes for good measure before rising to leave. She's got to pick up some homework she sent to the printer before next period begins.

Holly looks up at her, disbelief and amusement fighting for dominance on her face, but Gail lets her hang until she gets to the door, and then turns around to smirk at the brunette.

"Gail Peck," she says, "and I teach romance languages to anyone misguided enough to sign up. This was fun, Lunchbox, we should do it again."

She salutes Holly with a cookie, and then leaves the lounge with a smile on her face, the other woman's laughter echoing out into the hallway after her.


	2. Chapter 2

On Tuesday Gail's back at her usual lunch table. And because she only pretends to be oblivious to other people and their feelings, she notices the little hitch of disappointment in Holly when the other woman comes in and sees that things were back to normal.

And for some reason, the other woman's response matters.

So Gail finds herself doing something she usually tries to avoid out of a sense of self-preservation.

She reaches out.

"Lunchbox," Gail says, acknowledging the other woman with in a serious tone, "lunch at mine today?" She gestures with her mug, inviting the brunette to join her.

"Hey," Holly responds, giving her a wide smile, "I see the bullies gave you back your table."

Gail takes a sip of her coffee to hide her smile. "They're young, they scare easily."

Holly's lunch today looks nauseatingly healthy, all greens and vegetables. Gail almost feels sorry for her as she nibbles on the crust of another slice of leftover pizza.

"Will they live to tell the tale," Holly asks as she drizzles some sort of dressing over her salad, "or will you be needing a quick course in 'destroying evidence with kitchen cleaners 101?'"

Gail starts to laugh. This woman is ridiculous.

"I let them off with a warning," she answers, "this time." The last words are said menacingly, and Gail waggles her eyebrows.

Holly snorts with laughter and then spears another forkful of lettuce and shredded carrot.

They sit mostly in silence, but together, until Holly notices that Gail's only lunch is her cold slice of pizza.

"Do you want some," she asks, holding out her salad. "It's pretty big, I could grab another fork."

Gail looks at the science teacher as if she's suddenly grown another head.

"I couldn't," she says to Holly, "and by 'I couldn't' I mean I literally couldn't. I've spent years building up antibodies against vegetables. That many at once would probably kill me. Plus, I just saw you eat a tomato from there and I am, like, deathly allergic to the little red hellbeasts."

"Oh," Holly says, "sorry."

Gail grins at her. "You don't have to be sorry if you have some more of those cookies …" she says suggestively.

Rolling her eyes, Holly grabs a little snack bag of homemade cookies out of her lunchbox. She starts to hand them over but then reconsiders, opening the bag to count out half for herself first before handing the rest over to the blonde with a pointed look.

It takes Gail a few minutes to get her laughter under control.

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Gail doesn't even think twice about waving Holly over to join her at lunch after the first day. Somehow Holly doesn't seem to intrude on her personal space as much as everyone else in the world does; she breaks right through Gail's self-imposed bubble without even trying.

* * *

Friday is Activity Day, and Gail and all the other faculty advisors, plus however many of their students have study-hall after lunch, are in the big gymnasium setting up booths featuring information about the various academic, social, intra-mural sport, and other miscellaneous student groups the kids can join. Gail advises Language Club, which means that every other Friday afternoon she oversees the 15 or so student members in some sort of activity that has something to do with languages. And she's in charge of the Spanish, Italian, French, and Latin honor societies and AP prep groups. Those she inherited just last year when the department head retired. The increased workload wasn't something she was looking forward to, but the salary bump would help fund her next trip to Europe, so it almost equaled out.

She's pinning up photos from last year's induction ceremonies, and waiting for her student assistant to arrive, when she catches sight of Holly across the big room. The brunette is carrying a box full of sciency-looking stuff and heading to an open booth right next to—Gail drops what she's doing and makes a beeline for Henry, the gym teacher coordinating the set-up.

"Harry, Harry" she whispers fiercely, poking his bicep to get his attention.

"Madame Peck, to what do I owe the pleasure of your prescenc—ow, that one actually hurt," he exclaims.

"Good. I need a favor."

Henry is a big guy, and he towers over Gail. The big, hat-haired oaf is one of the few people she actually likes at this school, and they've spent more than a few nights drowning their sorrows together over the past few months. He's probably the closest thing she has to a friend at the moment.

_Though_, she thinks to herself as he pats her on the head with his gargantuan paw, _that could change quickly_.

"And what do we say when we need something, Gail," he says patronizingly, "we use our words and we say 'Please.'"

Her glare doesn't faze him in the least.

"Do you know the new chemistry teacher?"

He nods and scans the room, "Yep, she's got O'Hare's old spot right next to … oh."

"Exactly, oh," she says back.

Henry looks back at Holly, a little confused.

"Wait," he says, "I don't get it. What does it matter that she's next to Joel. I made sure you weren't near him or Gemma, but that's all."

"She's my friend," Gail responds. "I mean, I think she is, maybe. She's been giving me cookies, and hey," she looks up at him and pokes him again, "we're friends, how come you've never brought me cookies?"

"Cookies are a two-way street, Gail," he says back to her, "now what's the deal, why can't she be next to Joel?"

Gail looks away before answering.

"She doesn't know about the whole thing last year and I'd rather keep it that way for right now. I don't need another person judging me, or worse, pitying me."

Henry's a good guy, so he only keeps her waiting for a few seconds before scratching his nose and agreeing to move Holly to one of Gail's booths; she'll just have to combine Language Club and the rest onto one table this year.

"But," Henry says, "on one condition."

"Harry," Gail teases him, "we've been through this. I'm not your type. I'm flattered, but—"

"You've got to come out to drinks with us all again. I get why you stopped for a while, but you can't avoid us all forever. And besides," he says, anticipating her protest, "Joel doesn't ever come anymore, so you can't use that as an excuse."

"Joel stopped going to the bar with you and the rest of the coaches?" This is the first that Gail's heard of that; but, then, she's mostly been trying to pretend that Joel doesn't exist. And, to be honest, doing an incredible job of it for working in the same school.

"It may have been suggested that as he is no longer a coach he wasn't entirely welcome anymore," Henry says nonchalantly.

"You big oaf," she says to him, "you didn't have to do that."

He looks down at her, "Of course I did, you deserved better than what happened. Besides," he says with a smile, "you've got better legs."

"Damn straight, I do," she laughs, and then returns to her tables to rearrange things.

A few minutes later Henry is leading Holly over, and carrying her box of stuff. He puts it down and then looks at Gail.

"About our arrangement," he asks.

"Soon," she responds. "Maybe not this weekend, but soon."

Holly gives her a strange little look as Henry walks away, but then just says hello and starts to put together her display.

Gail looks at the banner the older woman is stringing around the table.

"Chemistry club," she asks with a grin.

"Yep, when I got hired I tried to get them to change the name to Future Anarchists of America but they shot the idea down pretty quickly." Holly gives her that wide smile again, and Gail can feel herself grinning in return.

"Nice," she says, "I just hope your nerd-booth can hold its own against my paradigm-reciting wunderkinds here at Language Club."

Holly laughs. "Oh, I'm sure I'll think of something to draw them in," she says.

Gail's student assistant arrives then—a skinny sophomore named Donnie—and two girls shortly follow and start to help Holly.

* * *

Soon the gym is full of students roaming everywhere, and Gail really can't hear anything over their general buzz. She's sitting on the bleachers, pretending to supervise her rather boring booth. In reality she's staring across the gym at the table she'd had Holly vacate. So, when someone taps her on the shoulder and hands her a bag of popcorn from the drama table, she's taken by surprise.

"Thought you could use this," Holly says as she settles onto the bleachers next to Gail.

"You keep bringing me food and you'll never get rid of me," Gail says in reply before taking a handful.

Holly gives a quiet laugh. "That's what my mom said about this stray cat I used to sneak bowls of milk to back when I was a kid. It was this terrible old thing, all scratched and scarred. I don't think it had ever been in a house, much less lived in one. I spent a summer trying to domesticate it. I would leave food out for it in the morning and then hide on the porch and just wait for it to come out of the bushes. I thought eventually it would learn to trust me and I'd finally have the cat my parents wouldn't let me get. I even had a collar ready and everything."

Gail looks confused for a moment, and then gives the brunette one of her best glares. "Why are you telling me all this," she asks.

"No reason," Holly says, "just letting you know that you aren't the first I've tried to befriend through food."

"Yeah," Gail's tone is dry but amused, "and how'd that work out for you with the cat?"

"Not so great, actually. He was old and too smart to let some eight-year-old girl get the better of him. He'd been the bane of the neighborhood forever, and he knew not to trust anyone. I'm sure he had plenty of experience dodging the local boys and such. Anyway, he'd stalk that bowl of food I put out for him—my mom said milk wasn't good for him so I bought a couple of cans of cat food at the gas station down the street—and somehow scarf it all down before I could get close enough to even try and pet him. Eventually I got tired of trying and gave up."

Gail laughs, and crumples the empty bag in her hands.

"Looks like you figured out how to draw in a crowd," she says, nodding toward down to where two of Holly's be-goggled AP Chem students were doing some sort of magic trick that involved soaking dollar bills in something and then lighting them on fire, and letting the flame burn down and out before giving a slightly soggy but intact bill back to the audience member. A younger student stood to the side with a fire extinguisher, just in case. A fourth one was changing a glass of water into a red liquid and then back into water just by blowing into the glass with a straw.

Looking at her table, where Donnie sits talking with a friend in what better not be English if he knows what's good for him, Gail feels a little bad. At least last year she'd had music playing.

"Magic and science," Holly says, standing and offering Gail a hand up, "are not always easily differentiated."

* * *

Much later, as they're walking back towards their rooms with the remains of their booths in their arms, Holly turns to her.

"I get the feeling that you don't like many of the people here," she says.

"Oh, really," Gail raises a brow, "and why would you say that?"

"I just spent two hours in the gym listening to you point out the people you hate," Holly responds.

Gail stops in the hallway. It's been a long day.

"It's not that I don't like them," she says to the brunette. "Okay, that's not true, you're right, I don't like a lot of them. We work at this big expensive private school and so a lot of the kids we get in our classrooms have trust funds and credit cards and had better portfolios in kindergarten than I'll ever have. There's a lot of unjustified arrogance and way too much entitlement. A lot of the kids are jerks—they can't help it, they've been raised that way, but they're still jerks. And a lot of the teachers are the same way."

This time Holly raises an eyebrow.

"I like some of them though," Gail says in her defense, "the scholarship kids are usually pretty good people. Kids like Donnie, too, who have some idea of the fact that the world doesn't revolve entirely around themselves. And as far as the faculty goes I like Henry and some of his people. Like the basketball staff. I'm very fond of the basketball staff. We go out sometimes on the weekend."

Gail realizes she's babbled, but it seems important to her to get Holly to realize she doesn't hate everybody. Just some people.

"Well," Holly says with a cheerful smile, "I guess it's a good thing I'm on the basketball staff then."

That takes Gail by surprise. "Yeah, who are you coaching?"

"Girls JV, I guess the other guy stepped down or something. His wife's pregnant, that what they told me at the interview."

Gail's face falls and she doesn't say anything for a moment.

"Yeah, Joel Carter. His wife Gemma is due sometime near the end of the season. She teaches some of the business classes."

Holly must sense that something is off, because she shifts the box in her arms and takes a step closer.

"Hey," she says, "everything okay?"

Gail frowns and then looks up.

"Holly, I'm like a cat," she says.

"What," Holly asks, unsure of what the blonde means.

"I'm like the cat in your story. I'm mean and I'm not good with people. And whenever someone comes around who's nice to me for a little bit, I basically stalk whatever they're holding out but never let them get too close. And eventually they stop trying. They get tired of it and give up. You should know that, I might as well warn you now so you can stop putting out food and waiting for me to make a move for it."

"Okay," Holly says, drawing out the word slowly as she gathers her thoughts.

When she starts to speak, her voice is kind and gentle. "Gail, that was just a story from my childhood. I was just making a joke about feeding strays. It wasn't a metaphor about you or anything. You're not that old ugly cat."

"You don't think so," Gail asks, quirking her mouth.

"Not at all," Holly says. "Now, if there's an animal from my childhood that you _do_ resemble, I'd have to say it's the tortoise I won at the fair back in third grade."

Gail looks unimpressed.

"A turtle," she says.

"A tortoise."

"I'm like a turtle, really?"

Holly laughs. "Absolutely," she says, "small, goes at his own pace, carries his home on his back, squishy on the inside. You're very tortoise."

"And you're very weird," Gail says back with a laugh.

Holly starts down the hallway toward her classroom before turning back to call out.

"Hey, by the way, you should definitely come out to drink with us coaches sometime soon. This weekend?"

Gail shakes her head, "Can't. Maybe next."

"I'm going to hold you to that, Gail Peck," Holly says before disappearing around the corner.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey," Holly said as she entered the lounge, seeing Gail at the counter, "saw your picture in the paper this weekend."

Gail groaned and slowly beat her head against the cupboard as she waited for the coffee pot to fill.

"I don't even want to talk about it." And she really, really didn't.

The weekend had been the worst. The smile that talking with Holly had put on her face after Friday's Activity Fair had faded soon after she left the campus. Because instead of going home to spend a weekend holed up in her apartment, writing out the next few weeks' worth of lesson plans while eating takeout and watching whatever marathon she could find on TV, she had to spend the weekend with her family.

It was a big weekend for the Peck family, see, and Gail was expected to play her part. First there was a commendation ceremony for her brother Steve-dumbass was getting some sort of medal for the part he played in bringing down a human trafficking ring-and then on Sunday she had to make an appearance at a party for her parents' 35th wedding anniversary.

She wasn't looking forward to either.

But she didn't have a choice. She was a Peck.

So, Saturday, she got herself all dressed up. Pulled on a slinky black and silver dress, and slipped into her best pair of fuck-me heels. Pulled her hair up and back into a classic bun, letting just a few strands fall out to frame her face. And then, of course, there was the make-up: eyes outlined in thick black and a bright red lipstick in harsh contrast to her pale, porcelain skin.

By the time she pulled into the driveway of her parents' house, the transformation was complete. Shoulders square, jaw set, mouth pressed into a firm line, Gail took a deep breath and crossed the threshold.

"Gail, dear," her mother said, "I've been waiting for you. We should have left fifteen minutes ago. I sent your father and Steve ahead-"

Gail rolled her eyes. "You told me five. It's only just after the hour," she said, just a hint of a whine in her voice.

"I said we would be leaving at five. Not ten after, Gail. I know the life of a teacher isn't as structured as that of a police officer, but however can you guide your students to success if you can't be bothered to be respectful and responsible yourself?"

The pain of digging her nails into her palms was the only thing to ground Gail as she listened to her mother. That, and the big breath she took before slipping into the passenger seat of her mother's car. Years of experience kept her from bothering to come up with any sort of excuse. It's not like Elaine would have accepted one anyway.

The drive to the ballroom where the evening's ceremony was to take place was filled with an awkward silence. Nothing made her mother's disappointment in her more apparent than events like these, events reminding her mother that Gail hadn't fallen into line, hadn't lived up to the Peck family name and taken up the badge and the blues.

If Elaine had her way, there would be four Officer Pecks at the ceremony tonight, and she'd get to parade Gail around the room as her protégé, the daughter-in-blue who was growing up to follow in her mother's footsteps. Instead, Gail was the disappointing daughter who traded a gun for a red pen, a squad car for a classroom.

It's something her mother will never be able to forgive.

But at least there was booze at the event. It made being stuck there between her uniformed parents, listening to the speeches and the praise and the nearly unbearable preening of her mother almost, almost tolerable. Unfortunately, enticed by the Peck legacy and the opportunity to feature the success of a multi-generational policing family all polished and pressed in the local section of the paper, there was also a reporter and a photographer in attendance.

That, of course, made Sunday and the anniversary party even more annoying than usual. From the moment Elaine had seen the picture of the four of them in the paper-three Pecks in uniform and then Gail, listed as "also included"-she couldn't shut up about it. All day long Gail was forced to hear about how proud her mother was of Steve, what a contribution he was making, the honor he brought to the family legacy, and blah blah blah. Thankfully, the day started with breakfast mimosas and the alcohol kept flowing as the hours passed.

The buzz Gail built up in the morning was the only thing that kept her sane the rest of the day. Between Elaine showing off Steve and his new medal, the "also included" photo, and then the constant jabs from Elaine about her job, her single-status (because Elaine had loved Joel), and her general lack of Peckness, Sunday was going down in Gail's "worst days ever" memory book.

After she finally was released from family duties and allowed to return to her apartment, Gail self-medicated the rest of the night away, ignoring the blank lesson plans waiting for her to figure out how she was going to torture her students this week.

She'd wing it.

Wouldn't be the first time.

* * *

Come Monday morning, when Holly found her praying for quick relief over the coffee machine, Gail was monumentally hung-over, in a piss-poor mood, and just looking for someone to take it out on. But when she heard Holly's voice at the door, most of that ire vanished. If there was one thing that had kept her sane the past few days, it was the thought of turtles and the science teacher with the crooked grin.

"Another rough morning," Holly asked, coming up to stand next to the blonde woman.

Gail poured herself a large mug of coffee and immediately took a big sip, wincing at the burn of the hot liquid on her lips.

"Terrible weekend," she responded once the burn in her throat has eased a bit. "You saw—the picture? Big Peck shindig. Lots of disapproving glances. Disappointment. All that."

"Really," Holly said as she poured herself a mug, "that doesn't sound like fun at all."

"Hmmmm," Gail mused, taking another big gulp. "Imagine your own personal hell, Lunchbox," she said, "and then multiply it to infinity."

Holly made a sympathetic noise at that. "Hey," she said to the mess of blonde hair spread over the table, "I might have something that'll help."

"Nothing can help, Lunchbox. I'm dying and I have to go and pretend that I'm not dying so that these terrible parasites can understand the names they're being called on all their future vacations to the French Riviera."

"Oh, really," Holly laughed quietly, "then I guess I'll just have to take this bag of sweet, homemade muffins away and keep them all for myself then."

Gail lifted her head off the table.

"More goodies, Lunchbox? What, do you run a bakery on during your spare time?"

"No," Holly said as she brought out the bag of muffins, "it's just relaxing. Something my mom and I can do together that doesn't tire her out too much. Besides," she continued, "it's just another type of science."

Gail raised her eye at the brunette sitting across from her.

"Edible chemistry," Holly said and grinned before passing Gail a nice and big one.

Overhead the chimes signaling the start of the school day sounded, and Gail have a great sigh before hauling herself out of the chair and heading for the door. Not before snagging another muffin for the road, of course.

"See you at lunch," she said to Holly, more of an assumption than a question.

Holly smiled back at her. "Did you actually bring a lunch today, Gail? Or should I expect to split mine again?"

"Lunchbox, any time you get tired of feeding me you just let me know."

Gail laughed and then kicked the door to the lounge open with her foot, heading into the busy hallway outside.

* * *

The morning passed slowly, but it passed tolerably thanks to the motor-oil break room coffee and the delicious muffins from Holly. Her AP Spanish class first period was mostly silent, with a just the murmur of voices in the background as her students peer-edited each other's biographical essays. Eventually, though, the end of third period rolled around, and Gail found herself calling out the homework assignment as her kids loudly packed up their things and moved on to their next class. As usual, Donnie was the last one out of the room.

Donnie was probably her favorite student. He was smart and had a good ear for languages. But more than that, he was genuinely interested in them, unlike most of his classmates who were only in the languages classes to fill up that space on their transcripts. He was a bit shy, and for the most part kept pretty much to himself. But he'd joined Language Club as a freshman the year before, and he'd slowly opened up during the meetings and get-togethers. Enough that Gail could see the funny, sensitive, caring man beneath the shy boy's outer shell. Late last year, during the difficult weeks and months leading up to summer break, his jokes had often been the only thing that could even make her smile.

"Donald," Gail said in a purposely gruff tone, "what can I help you with?"

The corner of the boy's mouth turned up just a bit.

"I have study hall seventh period," he said, not quite meeting her eyes, "but it's really crowded in there and loud and most of the basketball team is in there at the same time, so I'm not getting any studying done—"

"Donnie," she interrupts, "do you want to be my aide that hour? It'd just be some photocopying and running errands, but whenever I don't have anything for you to do you could sit in the back and do your own studying."

The look of relief on his face was almost palpable, and he gave her an embarrassed smile.

"Thanks, Miss Peck, you're the best."

She resisted the urge to ruffle his shaggy hair, "Of course I am. Now get out of here, I have a lunch date that I don't want to miss."

Donnie grabbed his backpack and hurried out of the room, almost running into a figure at the door.

"A lunch date, hey," Holly's voice said from the doorway, "I'm flattered."

Gail locked her computer, smiling to herself.

"I wouldn't be, Lunchbox. I was talking about those muffins."

They ate in Gail's classroom instead of the lounge, and enjoyed the sunshine that filtered in through the tall windows. The teacher's lounge, of course, was buried away in the basement, and hadn't seen natural light in decades.

"So," Holly started while picking at the sandwich she'd brought for herself, "your weekend was terrible?"

Gail took a moment to swallow the bite she'd just taken from an identical sandwich.

"You could say that," she said. "I mean, you saw the paper. Hero cop from top cop family receives award. Also present, Gail Peck, professional and personal disappointment."

Holly tilted her head curiously. "Looks like it was a pretty big event—still," she said, "you kind of got a raw deal. They couldn't have called you 'Gail Peck, youth instructor extraordinaire' or something like that?"

Some of the ache in Gail's chest dissolved at that. "Well," she replied, "I did try to get them to put me down as 'Gail Peck, turtle,' but they didn't get it."

Holly laughed, almost snorted. "Tortoise," she corrected, "there's a difference."

Gail took a breath and continued.

"My family is difficult, Holly," she said, feeling for the first time in a long while like she could talk about how being a Peck makes her feel. "Pecks are cops, that's it. You're born knowing that one day you're going to strap on a badge and a gun and chase after bad guys. Childhood is really just a junior police academy, training you early so when you finally get to the academy you'll live up to the legacy that the Pecks before you have left behind. So every normal childhood experience my brother and I had—you know, vacations, camp, Christmas morning—was framed as some sort of test. Vacations at the cottage turned into survival training, birthday parties turned into 'can you put the clues together and find your gifts' things. Even the games we played in the car on long rides were just a way to get us to think like officers instead of kids. To this day I still can't drive down the street without making a mental note of the license plates of every car I pass."

Holly's eyes were sympathetic. "That sounds … intense," she said gently.

"That's one word for it. I had a therapist a few years ago who used the word sadistic."

"Not entirely inappropriate," Holly responded. "But you're not a cop."

The smile on Gail's face couldn't hide the sadness in her eyes, not entirely.

"Nope," she said, "and thus I am a continual disappointment to my mother. All Elaine Peck wanted was a daughter to follow in her footsteps, and she ended up with me."

Holly reached a hand across the table to lay atop the blonde's. "If you ask me," she said kindly, "your mother could have done a lot worse."

"Oh, really," Gail's voice took on a dry tone, "and what about you, Lunchbox? Are you the apple of your mother's eye? Or are your baking sessions full of silence and disapproving glares too?"

"Actually," Holly said, breaking out the now familiar baggie of cookies and splitting them into two even piles, "Grace and I get along pretty well. It was rough at first, but after the first year or two we kind of figured each other out."

Gail looked up from the last bites of her sandwich. "Figured each other out," she asked, confusion apparent in her tone.

"Grace is my foster mother," Holly responded. "I was placed with her when I was fourteen after bouncing around in the system for a while. I went from a really bad home to a group home for teens and then to Grace all in the space of a year. So the first couple of months I may have been a bit of a classic teenage rebel until the two of us found our groove."

Gail's curiosity was piqued and her disbelief apparent. But she wasn't sure it was appropriate to ask Holly about the more delicate minefields in her past—like why she was in foster care, or what a "really bad home" meant, or anything like that. So instead, she focused on something else.

"You," she said, "a rebel?" She paused to look around comically, "are there pictures?"

Laughter bubbled up from Holly's chest.

"Probably," she responded, "but they're kept under strict lock and key, Peck, so don't go getting any—hey!"

Gail drew back the hand that had been sneaking forward toward the second pile of cookies. "They're just so good," the blonde said, "can I hire you and your mother to keep me in constant supply?"

The look Holly gave her was amusing, half-amused side-eye/half-exasperated glare.

"Is that what these lunches have been, Gail," she asked, "are you worming your way into my cookie jar?"

Gail winked at her.

"Mostly," she said, "but the company is growing on me. Slowly, and like some sort of mold, but growing."

"Gail Peck," Holly said with a false sweetness, "you do have way with words."

Gail smiled and started to clean up the desk as the chime overhead warned that the fourth period was about to end.

"Seriously, though," she said to Holly as the science teacher put the chairs back in order, "you and your mom have a way with baked goods. If this teaching thing ever falls through the two of you should open a bakery together. I can guarantee that I'd be your best customer. Not a paying-customer, mind you. It's my idea so I should get complimentary cookies for life, see…"

Holly gave Gail a smile.

"She would like you, you know. Grace, I mean. You should come over sometime and meet her. I think she's getting tired of just having me for company."

"Do you keep her locked up or something? Because I know some cops and I'm pretty sure that's not legal."

The look on Holly's face was a mix of amusement and something else, sadness maybe.

"No, Gail," she responded, "though I'll keep that in mind. She has cancer. It's why I moved back here in the first place, so I could help take care of her during her chemo and radiation and everything."

"Oh," Gail said, feeling a warm shame flush her pale skin, "I didn't know, I'm sorry."

The science teacher paused in the doorway. "No reason why you should," she said, and then headed down the hall toward the science wing.

* * *

Gail spent the rest of the afternoon feeling like she'd made a mistake of some sort. No, she couldn't have known about Holly's mother being sick. But it made the issues she had with her own mother pale in comparison, and she knew it. It bothered her for the rest of the day; even her normally oblivious teenage students noticed that she was distracted.

So when the final bells chimed, Gail closed her classroom door and made her way quickly toward Holly's room on the other side of the building. She hoped to catch the brunette before Holly left for the day.

Luck must have been on her side, because she caught up to the science teacher just as Holly was locking the door to her room.

"Hey," Holly said brightly, "what's up?"

"I just wanted to apologize," Gail said quickly, "I didn't know your mother was sick. I shouldn't have complained about mine all through lunch. It must seem so stupid to you when you're worried about your own."

The brunette smiled at her. "Gail," Holly said, "don't worry about it. You didn't know. And besides, everybody is entitled to their own pain. Just because I'm worried about my mother doesn't mean that you can't be frustrated or upset with your own."

The soft and soothing press of Holly's hand on her arm chased away Gail's worry at having offended or angered this new and intriguing friend.

"Still," Gail said, "I think I owe you a drink, Lunchbox. There's no big Peck shindigs this weekend. What do you say I cash last week's rain-check in and we hit the bar on Friday? A little music, a little dancing, a lot of alcohol? You in?"

Holly nodded, "That sounds like fun. Let's do it."

"Great, Lunchbox," Gail said with a grin, "it's a date."


	4. Chapter 4

Gail pulled up to the small suburban ranch house at the address Holly had given her earlier that day. They'd decided it would be easier to take a single car to the bar rather than have to both fight traffic and find parking in downtown Toronto on a Friday night.

Turning the car off, Gail checked her phone. She was early, by about a half an hour. She'd built in extra "getting lost" time when she'd left her apartment, but Holly's directions were spot on. So now she had time to kill before she was due to knock on Holly's door.

She sat there for a few minutes, parked on the street, trying to decide whether she should go up to the door and apologize for being early, and hope that Holly was already ready, or wait out the next half an hour in her car, like a stalker. Or, Gail thought to herself, she could drive around for a bit, do a couple of laps around the neighborhood to burn some time off the clock. She'd just put the key back in the ignition when a sharp knock on passenger window startled her.

Holly was standing outside the car, a heavy flannel jacket wrapped around her shoulders, hair blowing in the wind.

"Hey," she said as Gail rolled down the window, "what are you doing out here, why didn't you come up to the door?"

"Oh," Gail responded, "I didn't want to disturb you if you were getting ready."

Holly gave her a crooked smile. "So," she said, "you figured you'd sit out here looking like a weirdo instead?"

It did seem rather silly once Gail thought it over.

"Come on," Holly told her, "come inside for a few. I'm sure that Grace would love to say hello."

Holly's home was warm, and the chill of the unseasonably chilly September evening soon disappeared. Gail shed her jacket and heels at the door, and followed Holly into the living room.

"Ma," Holly said to the small woman sitting in what looked to be an extremely comfortable recliner, "this is Gail Peck, a colleague from the school. Gail, this is my mother, Grace Isidro."

A small woman in her late-sixties or early-seventies sat in a comfortable-looking recliner in front of the television. The woman was thin, too thin, and her head was wrapped up in a soft-looking scarf. But Gail could tell from the deep-set laugh lines framing her mouth that illness was not something she'd let get her down for long.

A firecracker, that was the word that came to mind. This woman looked like the kind who, when healthy and hearty, was never standing still for too long. Feisty. The kind of person Gail would actually enjoy interacting with.

"Gail," Grace said, "it's nice to put a face to the name. Holly says you've become quite a fan of her cookies." She pulled down the afghan to free her hands and motion for Gail to come closer.

"Actually," Gail says and steps forward, shrugging her coat onto the corner of the couch, "from what I hear they're really your cookies. I told Holly I'd hang out with her tonight, but I'm really just here to weasel the recipe out of you."

Holly laughed dryly behind her, and her mother chuckled from her seat in front of the muted television.

"Holly," Grace said, "go get ready. I'll keep Gail occupied. If you don't keep us waiting too long, I promise I won't give away too many of your embarrassing stories."

"Go, Lunchbox, take your time, I want to get some dirt on you from your mother."

Holly's mother laughed louder.

"Lunchbox?" she asked.

"Oh, it's just something stupid. I didn't know Holly's name at first but she has this red lunchbox. I don't know, it was amusing at the time."

The older woman nodded, "Ahh, that lunchbox. Yes, it's the only thing she has left, you know, from her family. She carried it everywhere for years, like a shiny red security blanket."

Gail looked at her in horror.

"Is that … really?" Gail said, shame in her voice, "because I was just joking, I didn't mean to … really?"

Grace laughed loudly.

"No," she said, "of course not. But I've discovered that the cancer thing makes people take everything I say as seriously as if it came from God himself. So maybe I play around with that once and a while, just to break the ice."

Gail shook her head, trying not to laugh as her cheeks turned red with embarrassment. Her first impression had been spot on. The lady was a firecracker for sure.

"Now, Gail," she said, "I'd invite you to sit down but I can see that you're just itching to have a look around. So don't mind me, I can get to know you just as well while you snoop."

Gail smiled, she liked Holly's mother for sure.

"What I'm really looking for, Miss Isidro, are teenage photos. According to Holly she was quite the rebel." Gail grinned conspiratorially, "But I just don't believe it."

"Just Grace will do," the grey-haired woman said, "and if you're looking for embarrassing teenage photos, you should start over there on the bookshelf."

Gail snuck a look down the hallway, but Holly was nowhere in sight, and then made her way over to the shelves overflowing with books and the display of frames just at eye-level. She could pick out a teenaged Holly in a few of them, the child in the photos had the same sultry eyes and crooked mouth. Even if it was turned down sulkily in more than a few of the images.

"When was this taken," Gail asked in an amused voice, bringing the frame around to Grace in her chair.

"Oh, let me see," Grace said and motioned for Gail to sit on the couch beside her recliner, "that was just a few months after she came to live with me." She laughed warmly. "My, but I had forgotten about that hair."

Gail leans in closer to look at the picture again. Holly's about fifteen, tall and skinny. Close to gangly, even, with her long, coltish limbs stretched out in front of her as she sits in the grass on some sunny summer day. Her skin is dark against her pale jean shorts and thin camisole, and her hair is a mess, choppy and uneven, and with streaks of red dyed in almost randomly. She's got her arm around a girl with paler skin and dark black hair, whose dark black jeans and matching t-shirt are a startling contrast to the otherwise sunny atmosphere of the photo.

"Who's that with her," Gail asked curiously, peering closely at the photo.

The older woman takes the photo back to look. "I'm trying to remember her name, she was Holly's closest friend the first couple of years. A real different girl, always wearing black and dying her hair different colors. I wasn't too keen on Holly spending time with her; thought she was a bad influence. But that's what everyone thought back then. If you watched the wrong movies or wore the wrong colors or pierced the wrong things, everybody thought you were going to end up as a photo on the news. Truth is, I thought the same things. But Holly helped me to see past all that."

"Past all what, ma?" Holly entered the room wearing a pair of tight black jeans and a deep red top that shimmered in the light.

"Oh, Holly," Grace said, "help me remember. What was the name of that girl you were friends with in high school. You know, the one with all the black, the one everyone used to call a witch?"

The brunette came over to see what Gail and Grace were looking at. "That's Layla, ma. And she wasn't a witch. She just wore a lot of black."

Grace settled back in her chair. "That's right, Layla," she said. "I was afraid she was going to be a bad influence on you."

Gail watched as Holly smiled and laid her palm against the other woman's cheek. "You were worried about a lot of things, ma, and not without reasons." She leaned in and kissed Grace's forehead. "But hey, we're going to head out, do you need anything before we go?"

Holly's mother shook her head no. "I think I'll be fine," she said, "I've got my water, my pills, and my remote control. That'll keep me."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure, now go out and have fun, okay? You spend way too much time here with me. I'm starting to worry about you," Grace said.

Gail laughed.

"All right," Holly said and stood up straight, "I don't think I'll be back too late, but if you need anything you call me or you call Denise, okay?"

"Yes, doctor," Grace replied sarcastically as Holly stepped back into the hall to grab her coat and boots. "Now," she said, turning to Gail, "you keep her out until late, okay? I'm serious, she needs a night out of the house, some fun. You look like someone I can count on to make sure she has a good time."

The older woman gave Gail a sly smile.

"In fact," she said, "if Holly doesn't make it home until tomorrow morning that would be even better. She needs a night away. Something to take her mind off of everything."

Before Gail could respond, Holly was back in the room; "Ready, Gail?"

"Hey," Gail asked, thinking about what Grace had said to her, "are you hungry?"

She looked over at Holly in the passenger seat, where Holly was staring out the window, oblivious.

"Hey, Earth to nerd," she tried again.

"Hmmm," Holly asked.

"I asked if you were hungry," Gail repeated, and flipped her turn signal.

"I thought we were going downtown to the bar to meet up with Henry and everyone else," Holly replied, looking confused.

"We could," the blonde suggested, "or we could grab something to eat and not have to listen to Henry and Roxanne and everyone talk about which new freshman is going to blow away the competition at this year's auditions."

Holly smirked, "Tryouts, Gail, they're tryouts."

"It's not like there's a big difference," Gail grumbled to herself. "Anyway," she said, directing the conversation back to her question, "there's this new Indian restaurant a couple of blocks from my place and their korma is to die for. You up for it?"

"Actually that sounds really good, Gail," Holly responds and reaches between them to lay a hand over Gail's on the shift stick, giving the blonde's fingers a gentle squeeze.

"Plus," Gail added on, not sure what to do with the feelings that Holly's fingers tangling with her own brought up, "I have a bunch of booze back at my apartment. We can drink there if we want."

Holly was quiet for a moment.

"That actually sounds like a really great idea, Gail," she said, and for the first time all night the expression on her face was less worried than it was excited.

Gail smiled at her. "Awesome," she said, "because I am not in the mood for awkward pickup lines tonight. It's always big, sweaty, smelly guys who are way too confident or little skinny dudes with no game. I hate it."

"You should come hang out at the lesbian bars with me," Holly said, inhaling shakily, "the quality of the pickup lines is probably about the same, but the quality of the pickup artists? Much higher."

"Maybe I would," Gail said without missing a beat, "if it were a gender thing. But it's a people thing, Holly. I don't like people."

The brunette laughed as Gail pulled into a parking spot on a tree-lined street.

"We're here, Lunchbox," Gail said as she put the car in park, "prepare your taste buds for a journey they'll never forget."

They ended up getting their food to go, and Gail insisted on paying to make up for all the lunches she half-stole from Holly over the past few weeks. At her apartment, she found some sweatpants and a tshirt for Holly to change into. Soon they were each sitting on opposite ends of Gail's couch with a plate in one hand and a beer in the other as the theme music to _Parks & Rec_ filled the silences in the room.

Gail was content. She didn't mind the bar that they had planned on going to, but she was being honest when she said she didn't feel like dealing with men, or pickup lines, or people tonight. It was enough to sit on her couch with Holly, licking curry sauce from her fingers while Holly used a piece of naan to sop up the rest of hers and laughed. It was companionable. Comfortable, even.

After Grace had told her to make sure that Holly had fun tonight, Gail had taken a good, hard look at her colleague. Past Holly's pleasant, smiling mask. She saw the tired curve of Holly's lips, the well-disguised bags under her eyes. She saw how nervous Holly had been about leaving her mother alone in the house. She could almost see the heavy burden this woman bore as she cared for her sick mother all by herself.

Holly didn't need a night out, Gail had realized.

Holly needed a night off.

It didn't take long for the tension to seep out of Holly's body. Five or six episodes in, Gail looked over at her friend. Holly's head was down, chin against her chest, beer bottle dangling precariously from her hand. Gail smiled and stood up to collect the empties and the plates, covering Holly up with a blanket when she came back into the room.

It wasn't exactly what she had in mind for tonight—she'd been planning on a lot more booze and maybe even some dancing—but it was what Holly needed.

They could do drinks and dancing another time.


End file.
